e Magus

Like every Father’s Day, this one too saw the social media floodgates open. A wave of sepia-toned memories and black and white stoic portraits of fathers who walked barefoot so we could wear branded shoes, who skipped meals so we could eat out, who didn’t buy new clothes so that we could, who served a small helping of his favourite dessert to himself so we could get an extra serving, who quietly shouldered burdens, who defined love as responsibility and care as invisibility, and who gave up dreams so we could chase ours. I’m not writing to question the truth of these stories. I’m sure it all is true. However, what caught my attention is that the subtext is unmistakable: the nobility of a man lies in how much he gave up. What makes me curious is: why do we keep telling this story in the same way? Why are we so compelled to romanticise sacrifice? Perhaps it begins with how we've historically understood love in Indian families. Unlike the West, where love is often expressed through wo...

There was a time when the markers of success were defined by what you chose to own. The car you drove, the house you lived in, the watch on your wrist, the phone in your pocket, the fashion or perfume you wore —success was a visible, quantifiable thing. It was a flaunt you carried it out-of-home, on you in person, and inside, in your living rooms. Today, that calculus seems to be quietly changing. Increasingly, success is not about what you choose, but what you choose not to. To not hustle constantly. To not work on weekends. To not need a corner office. To not flaunt your wealth, but to use it for something “meaningful.” In short, to have the privilege of saying “no.” This isn’t just a shift in consumption or consumer behaviour. It is a recalibration of aspiration itself. Earlier, arrival was about accumulation. More was more. Today, it’s about subtraction. Consider the appeal of minimalism—not as an aesthetic, but as a status statement. Owning fewer things but better things. Wearin...

Gatekeepers have been the most toughest hurdle to cross from time immemorial before one can reach out to the powers that maybe. Be it the Kotwal in the courts of the emperor or the king, or the celestial guards of the gods or meeting the modern day corporate czars. I started my career in sales. My first job was going door to door and canvas for newspaper subscriptions. Well, that was the easy part of the job. The tougher part was Institutional Sales. It was a time when every institution worth its salt had its own hierarchy of barriers. To reach the boss, one had to first cross the darban , then the receptionist, then the chaprasi , and if you were lucky (and well-dressed), the secretary. These human gatekeepers didn’t just regulate access—they defined power. Gatekeeping was not just functional, it was theatrical. A ritual of deferral that reminded you where you stood. Today, something eerily similar is happening—except the gatekeepers wear no uniforms, have no expressions, and sit ...

I’m told that one the prominent view from Mukesh Ambani’s castle, Antilia, is the slums of Golibar. Nothing can be more symbolic of the richer and the poorer Indian living in close proximity.. Unlike in many developed countries where there is a clear physical demarkation between the east-enders and west-enders, in India, there is no comfort of distance. This is something very peculiar to India - where a swanky SUV reverse expertly out of a parking lot guided by a man who will take a crowded bus home to a one-room chawl. India doesn’t do distance very well—not emotional, not physical, and certainly not economic. The new Unilever chief Fernando Fernandez, in a recent interview, made a great observation: one of India’s unique advantages is that “richer and poorer Indians live in close proximity.” This, he says, is what makes quick commerce viable here. But the insight goes beyond logistics and delivery economics—it lays bare the very soul of Indian urban life. (Here is the link to the art...

I’ve been a strategist and a brand planner for many years now. The kind of years that earn you labels like “experienced,” “pro,” or—my personal favourite—“seasoned.” But here’s a confession: working on any client strategy still makes me uncomfortable. Last year around the same time, I was working on a campaign proposition for a global logistics company. The brief was clear: From the current perception of a ‘shipping giant’ reposition them as a tech-driven solutions partner. Simple, right? Except I had no clue about freight forwarding, cross-docking, first-mile, middle-mile, or last-mile optimisation. My Google search history looked like I was preparing for a customs clearance exam. I had two weeks to figure out what mattered to CXOs, make sense of operational inefficiencies, and somehow string together a story that both the client’s C-suite and our creative team would find compelling. There’s an unease that never fully goes away - trying to become a customer I’m not, looking at their w...

Last week, I was speaking with a startup founder, and something he said stuck with me. He remarked, "The Internet made information accessible to all. Now, AI is making knowledge accessible to all." That got me thinking—what will happen to knowledge in the future? For much of human history, knowledge was scarce and precious. From the guru-shishya tradition in the Vedic period to the hallowed halls of Alexandria, Nalanda, and Taxila, knowledge wasn’t just acquired—it was earned through deliberation, reflection, and debate. Questions led to more questions, and understanding was forged in the fire of discussion. It wasn’t merely about information; it was about insight—about peeling away layers of meaning through patient inquiry. Today, knowledge is abundant, overflowing, and, in many ways, devalued. I believe the future of knowledge will be shaped by three fundamental shifts: its diminishing value, a return to ancient forms of learning, and an emerging paradigm that challenges ...